


It's Gotta Be the Pie

by KateKintail



Category: Supernatural
Genre: OhSam Triple Play 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9495011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: “It’s gotta be the pie,” Sam breathes out, his cheek resting on the metal toilet seat that has warmed to him during the past eight minutes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: v-ing (stomach flu)

“It’s gotta be the pie,” Sam breathes out, his cheek resting on the metal toilet seat that has warmed to him during the past eight minutes. 

“Dude, I had two slices, and you don’t see me shoving you aside to get rid of them the hard way, do ya?” He wrings a wet washcloth out in the sink then takes a knee beside Sam. He dabs at Sam’s mouth a few times, swipes it twice across Sam’s forehead, and then then refolds the wash cloth and holds it against the back of Sam’s neck. 

The violent shiver it inspires catches Sam off guard. It’s so strong that the blanket Dean got for him an hour ago falls to the bathroom floor. Sam doesn’t move to get it back, just lets the cold wash over him. But Dean takes the washcloth away the pulls the blanket back up for him, tucking it tight around his brother and rubbing Sam’s arm through the blanket afterward. 

“I really hate to say it,” Dean starts, still rubbing. “Because it means I’m probably gonna come down with this thing next, but I think you’ve got the stomach flu.”

Sam groans in protest, but deep down he knows it’s true. Much as he’d like to blame this on Dean’s homemade blueberry pie with two scoops of vanilla on top, a stomach flu is the only thing that makes any sense. Oh God. Pie.

At the mere idea of putting anything remotely food-related into his mouth, Sam’s stomach churns. He rolls his head to the side so that it hangs over the bowl just as the heaving begins again in earnest. His stomach draws upward and inward and his aching body tenses. Then he feels it deep in his throat. He opens his mouth wide, expectant, but all he gets are dry heaves. Everything he’d had for dinner has already vacated his body long before. 

Nonetheless, Dean uses two hands and sweeps Sam’s long, brown hair back from his face. He gathers it into one hand and then rubs circles on Sam’s blanket-covered back with the other hand. “Relax,” Dean tells him. Sometimes Dean has to be serious and take charge of a situation. Sometimes he’s pissed off about a hunt. Sometimes he’s cocky… actually, most times he’s cocky. But right now he is soft and reassuring, just what Sam wants to hear from his big brother right now. “Don’t worry. It’ll pass.”

When the uncontrollable stomach spasms hit, it doesn’t seem like they will ever end. It feels like he might keep gagging until up comes his heart or at least one of his kidneys. His stomach muscles are weak from all of this, his body so incredibly tired it’s amazing he has the strength to cling to the toilet and keep upright. 

It passes, finally, just like Dean said it would. Dean lets go of Sam’s hair, letting it fall back down past his ears. Dean picks his current burner phone up off the bathroom floor and hits a couple buttons. The beeping sound goes straight to Sam’s head, echoing painfully, mockingly. “There we go.” Dean sets the phone back down. “Timer’s reset. Let’s see if you can make it a whole hour this time.”

Determined, Sam bobs his head up and down in a nod before laying it back down on the toilet seat. One hour without vomiting means Dean would help him back to bed. It means a bowl or empty trash can beside him, just in case the worst happens and he can’t get to the bathroom in time. It also means getting a sip of water. His lips are dry; he feels parched. But Dean flat-out refuses to give him any until he is sure Sam can keep it down. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this bad since…” He thinks for a moment then can’t help but laugh. “Since that time in Tuscon when you were so sick and out of it you couldn’t even make it out of bed.”

“I don’t think I’ve felt this bad since then.” Sam grimaces at the memory and closes his eyes. Being sick is exhausting. 

“Or, man, do you remember how sick you were in Red Rock? I had to throw your ass into the bathtub to get your fever down and even then you insisted on trying to get up and leave.”

“Not my fault. That was a curse.” 

“Yeah, well, you were still a mess. Man, I hate witches,” Dean mutters. “Oh, hey, remember that time we found Dad’s stash in the kitchen cupboard when he was out on a hunt? We got wasted. And you were—“

“Dean!” Sam pleads. The last thing he wants right now when he’s feverish and shivery and dehydrated and nauseated is to relive every horrible illness he’d had in the past twenty years. “If you can’t be quiet, go take a drive.” 

Dean could be quiet. Dean wets the washcloth again and presses it to Sam’s forehead again. And, as Sam shivers, Dean moves in close, lending a little body heat and something other than the toilet to lean against. Sam tries to not think about the pains still in his stomach. He tries to not think about how thirsty he is. Instead, he thinks how lucky he is to have a brother who’ll sit with him through all this horribleness. And he falls asleep thinking about that.

“Sam?” Then, louder but, somehow, softer, “Sammy?”

Sam lifts his head. His cheek throbs a little; this is a crappy motel, but the toilet seat isn’t as comfortable as a pillow. He blinks at his brother and leans back against the cold bathroom wall. The blanket slips down again. “What is it?”

“It’s been an hour and a half, Sammy. How’s your stomach?”

Sam shrugs. This is a stomach flu. It’s not going away so quickly. 

“Wanna try getting into bed? I’ll help you.” 

Sam nods and reaches out to his brother. Dean grunts as he takes Sam’s weight, pulling him up and supporting him across the small bathroom. When they get to the doorway, when they are within sight of the two queen-sized beds with their crisp white sheets untouched thus far tonight, Sam grabs hold of the doorway. “Wait, Dean.” His arm slides across his stomach. His hand grips hard at his flannel shirt. Impossibly, he grows paler as he pulls away from his Dean and lurches back toward the toilet. Even weak and sleepy, he makes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: not my characters. No money made.
> 
> Prompts:  
> 1.) the bunker in the middle of the night  
> 2.) Dean  
> 3.) stomach flu


End file.
